Black Knight in Red Square by Stuart M. Kaminsky

headed for the kitchen. Anatoli turned slowly and gave Karpo a bored look.
    â€œYes?” he said.
    â€œI must see Mathilde immediately.”
    â€œImpossible,” said Anatoli with a near chuckle at the absurdity of the request.
    â€œYou misunderstand,” Karpo said softly, putting his good right hand on the waiter’s shoulder. “This is not a request. It is an official police order.”
    The waiter winced in pain and began to sink, but Karpo pulled him up. A pair of late lunching customers saw the disturbance and, pretending they hadn’t noticed, hurried to pay their bill and leave.
    â€œMathilde,” he repeated. “I am not going to arrest her or you.”
    â€œYou’d better not,” said Anatoli, reaching up to massage his aching shoulder. “It would do you no good for your superiors to know about you and her.”
    He got no further. Karpo’s hand was around his neck, and Anatoli found himself looking into the emotionless face.
    â€œThat would embarrass me,” Karpo whispered, “but it would not cost me my job. It would, however, lead to your detention and sentencing as a panderer, and you are well aware of the penalty for that.” He released him roughly. “Where do I find Mathilde?”
    Anatoli’s clip-on tie had come loose on one side and dangled as he touched his throat and let out a rasping sob.
    â€œHome,” Anatoli whispered, and cleared his throat. “She called in sick to the telephone office.”
    Karpo turned and headed for the door.
    â€œShe’s not alone,” Anatoli said.
    Karpo continued on through the door and out into the street. In ten minutes, he was on Herzen Street, heading for a long row of almost identical ten-story apartment buildings. He entered the fourth building at a little before two in the afternoon and began the climb to the seventh floor. His left arm still throbbed occasionally, but the doctor had assured him that the throbbing would eventually go away. Karpo wasn’t so sure. He also wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it to go away. What he wanted was full use of the hand and arm. A little pain, like the great pain of his headaches, was a challenge to him. It was a test of his endurance, his dedication. The world was full of obstacles, pain, human frailty. The challenge for the state and the individual was to overcome the frailty. Karpo had done admirably with a few minor exceptions. He considered Mathilde, whom he had known for almost seven years, a major frailty.
    Karpo did not hesitate at the door. His four knocks were sharp and loud, and the familiar voice called, “Who is it?”
    â€œKarpo,” he replied. Behind the door he could hear frantic scrambling and a man’s voice, but it took no more than ten seconds for the door to open. Mathilde stood before him, the front of her green dress closed except for one button at the waist. Her dark brown hair fell loose to her shoulders. She was not pretty in the conventional way, but she was handsome and strong. Certainly, she was confident and sturdy. Even now one hand was on her hip as she faced Karpo in the doorway.
    â€œYou’re a week and five hours early,” she said.
    â€œI have some questions to ask you,” Karpo replied. “Send him home.” His eyes had not left her face. For a moment she looked angry, but then she must have remembered that anger had no effect on the man who stood before her. Secretly she felt sorry for Karpo, but she would never tell him so, because she knew that the slightest display of her feelings would send the gaunt, serious man away, never to return. She stepped back, allowing him to enter, and closed the door to the one-room apartment behind him.
    â€œMikol,” she said, without turning around. “Come out.”
    The door to the bathroom opened slowly, cautiously, and a thin young man came out. He was barely more than a boy, in fact, dressed in work pants and a white